


Of Pressure

by destronomics



Category: Iron Man (2008)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-25
Updated: 2009-11-25
Packaged: 2017-10-03 17:11:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destronomics/pseuds/destronomics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(vignette) "Like I'm an exception to a rule." The sip she takes may be more like gulp, and it's certainly half of whatever he had poured her and he thinks maybe he should start to worry. "It's sexist, Tony."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Pressure

Her hand comes up to the bridge of her nose, pinching it. "It's the expectation, Tony. I can't--"

"But you've already exceeded them. Long time ago, and without my permission, I might add."

But she isn't looking at him like he's being charming or unexpectedly sweet, she just looks tired. There's a pause as she kicks off her heels, and a longer one as she brings up her feet and tucks them underneath her dress, but she doesn't look away.

"It's the fact that you think I'm different."

Tony raises an eyebrow.

"You and Obadiah--" She starts.

His mouth goes dry at the mention of Obie. Obadiah. He tries not to think about it, but fails.

"You guys used to say it all the time -- 'You're a remarkable woman, Ms. Potts' -- and half the time I want to hit you, and I pretty much always wanted to hit him." She frowns and drains her glass. Tony takes it from her, moving to fill it along with his own.

"It's not actually a _compliment_. You know that, right?" Her eyes on him as she speaks and he pours, then on the glass as he hands it back to her. He settles beside her, and when their knees touch she pulls away. He tries not to think about that either. It doesn't work.

He doesn't answer.

"Like I'm an exception to a rule." The sip she takes may be more like gulp, and it's certainly half of whatever he had poured her and he thinks maybe he should start to worry. "It's sexist, Tony." He thinks he sees her smile. He can't be sure.

He wets his lips with the scotch.

"Tells me a whole lot more about _you_ than what you're trying to say about _me_." There goes the other half. Three scotches and a BMI of 16.1. He makes the calculations in his head and tries not to frown. He's one to judge.

He pulls the glass from between her fingers, ignores the brush of her skin against his; ignores the fact that he likes it. When he gets up, something in his thigh twinges, and he feels old.

"Save yourself a return trip," she calls out, "and make it a double. "

He skips the bar completely, and heads to the sink.

"-oh that's _rich_."

Slipping the glass under the faucet, he watches as it overfills; winces a little as the water splashes against his hand: it's cold and maybe he should welcome the moment of clarity. He doesn't.

He offers the glass back but doesn't sit down; doesn't risk it.

She's not saying anything anymore, and he begins to feel that familiar instinct: to run, to talk, to tinker, all in a futile effort to avoid stagnation, that ever looming threat of becoming obsolete.

He suspects Pepper knows just how long it takes for him to reach that state; hates that it makes him feel weak.

"I could be anyone with a little patience, Tony." And she says it like she's being kind, like he's not really flawed, like he's fully capable of making relationships outside scraps of sheet metal and the women who fetch his coffee. He wants to tell her that it's simply not true, that she _is_ special, and worthy of him, but he's not so sure of even that anymore, that being able to coddle a man-child like him should even be considered a compliment.

When he looks back, Pepper is watching him, her eyes glassy but no less filled with care.

He looks away.


End file.
